The Things We Carry
by LEJ418
Summary: "The power of things inheres in the memories they gather up inside them." A series of one-shots, mostly centered around Damon and Stefan, explores their complicated past through the objects of their lives.
1. Chapter 1: The Book

**Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to The Vampire Diaries. **

* * *

**The Book**

**Set between episodes 2.22 and 3.1**

Elena settles herself into her window seat, watching it pour outside. It suits her anxious mood perfectly. Stefan has been gone for two weeks now, with no sign of either him or Klaus. Despite Damon's assurance that Klaus has no reason to kill him, Elena worries constantly that he is dead, buried in some unmarked grave somewhere where they will never find him.

Her eyes flick to the amber coloured book lying in her lap, _Wuthering Heights_ is outlined on the cover in lovely gold letters. It is the first gift Stefan ever gave her, one of her favourites really. She loves this story as much as she did the first time she ever read it, even though now it borders on sheer irony. As she goes to open it, her finger slips and the book opens to the title page, one she's never bothered to look at before. At the very top, in beautiful looping letters are the words Grace N. Salvatore, Elena draws back, surprised.

Stefan never mentioned this book belonged to his mother. In fact, all he's ever told her about his mother is that she died when he was four. Did he know the book belonged to her when he gave it away, she wonders. It would have been easy to accidently pluck it off the shelf not knowing, it isn't as if there are any shortage of books in that house.

She leans back, thinking about this woman who gave birth to two such wonderful, infuriating, yet incredible sons. Was she kind, graceful, as her name suggests? Or was she cruel, like her husband was? Her thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on her door.

"Come in," she replies.

Damon steps inside, softly closing the door behind him.

"Would you look at that, you used a door," she teases.

Damon smiles back and comes to sit on the edge of her bed. For once he doesn't pick up all her things, aggravating her with his violation of her space.

"What's up?" she asks, "Any leads on Stefan and Klaus?"

"No. Just wanted to see how you were holding up. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. You could have just called."

His lips twinge with something unsaid, "I know." He eyes her book, "What are you reading?"

Elena hands it to him. "I'm glad you came over actually. Stefan gave me this a long time ago. Look at the title page."

Damon turns to the page, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"I just discovered that," Elena explains, "Grace was your mother, right?"

Damon's gaze returns to her, but his eyes are distant, as if he's trying to remember something only faintly lurking in his memory. "Yes," he finally says, "She was."

* * *

Grace Salvatore sits up in bed, her book propped up against her swollen stomach. This pregnancy has exhausted her but at the same time; she finds she cannot get comfortable enough to sleep. The ache in her back tells her that her time is soon approaching.

The door cracks open ever so slightly. Grace smiles as the face of her son peers through, framed in shadow by the candlelight.

"Damon, come in lamb." Damon scampers eagerly across the room, crawling onto the other side of the bed. Giuseppe would have another conniption fit if he knew she was allowing Damon in her room at all. He is seven now, it is considered unseemly for him to spend so much time with his mother, even more so now that she is in such an indelicate state of pregnancy. Grace can't bear to turn him away though, she loves him so dearly. After seven years of still births and miscarriages, he remains her only child. She runs a hand over her stomach and the son or daughter in her womb gives her a reassuring kick. She hopes against hope that this child will make it, she doesn't think she can stand another stillbirth or child who dies after only a few weeks.

"What are you reading Mother?" he asks, curiously peering over her shoulder. He's such an inquisitive boy, intelligent, but already proving a difficult pupil for his tutors.

"It is called Wuthering Heights," she explains.

"What is it about?"

"It's a love story." Damon makes a face and she tickles him affectionately. "Love is a wonderful thing; you'll learn that some day. But this story is more like a warning, because love is also a very dangerous thing. You have to be careful with it because it can be powerfully reckless, consuming. And love like that has just as much a capacity to destroy as it does to build."

Damon curls his lip, thinking about this for a moment. "Sometimes dangerous things are fun," he pipes, "Like when I climbed onto the roof of the bell tower at the chapel. Or the time Old Jack took me out on the river."

She ruffles his jet back hair, "You're going to be the death of me, child."

Damon scowls and she finds herself laughing. She understands now why people find her own eyes so hard to resist, her son's identical ones could charm her out of any mood. "How about I read to you for a little while and then you go back to your own bed?" she suggests.

She isn't sure how much of the book he'll actually comprehend but she hopes that at least the sound of her voice will give him some sense of comfort. She isn't stupid; she knows her son only seeks her out in the middle of the night when his father has been particularly cruel to him during the day. She can't understand why he is so hard on the poor boy; he is only seven after all. But for all her pleas fall onto deaf ears, it seems her husband is the only man who can resist her charm.

Damon nods eagerly, his head rolling onto her shoulder, and she begins to read. "My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."

She glances over at her son, his breaths are deep and even, a child sound asleep. She closes her book thoughtfully. She has never loved or been loved the way Catherine and Heathcliff have, she was married off to her brute of a husband when she was barely finished with puberty. In some ways she is almost envious of such love, despite the destruction. She glances at her children, one sound asleep on her shoulder, the other making his or her presence known in her womb. It is going to be a hard world for them, they'll learn that from their father soon enough. But she hopes so badly that his cruelty won't make them hard hearted too. She hopes it will not diminish their ability to love, to find someone to share their lives with and have children they show affection towards. And if they can't find that, she hopes they will at least love each other. Something deep down tells her that they will need each other.

* * *

Damon frowns for a moment, he strokes the cover of the book with his thumb, dazed, and then holds it out to her.

"It's yours," Elena protests, "You should keep it."

Damon shakes his head, "Nah, I never liked this story much. If you hadn't noticed, it's kind of a downer." He lowers his voice conspiringly, "And just between us, the Catherine thing weirds me out."

"But it was your mother's," Elena insists.

Damon shrugs her off, "I'm sure Stefan has plenty more of our mother's things stashed somewhere. If you hadn't noticed he's a pathological pack rat." He gives her a sad smile, "Besides, I think she'd want you to have it. She liked it a lot too."

Elena takes the book back into her hands. "Thank you," she says softly.

He stands and gives her an exaggerated bow which makes her laugh.

"Damon?" Alaric's voice calls from downstairs. "What are you two doing up there?"

"I should go," Damon smirks, giving her that charming sideways look of his. "Wouldn't want Alaric to think we're up to something." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Elena rolls her eyes and opens the book again, trying to find her place. He touches the top of her head once, a strange but affectionate gesture, and moves towards the door.

"Damon?" She calls as he reaches the door; he turns around with his hand on the doorknob. "For the record, you can always come over, you don't have to call."

For a fraction of a second, his eyes light up with something like joy, Elena feels her breath catch at the sudden unexpected depth in them but in a split second it is gone, replaced with this usual demeanour. "Good night, Elena," he wishes her softly, stepping out and closing the door behind him.

* * *

**Disclaimer: The lines directly from Wuthering Heights belong to Emily Bronte. We already established I have no claim to TVD.**

**A/N: Please do let me know if you have any thoughts on this, if there's anything in particular you would like to see. Thanks for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2: The Decanter

**The Decanter**

Set roughly around Episode 1.2

It's always strange to come back here after so long away. Damon fixes himself a glass of brandy and plops onto the couch, surveying the living room of the boarding house. It isn't exactly how he remembers it last, but then again, the claim he has to this house is marginal at best. Stefan is the one who is always returning and making nice with their distant relatives, soothing over whatever friction Damon has caused in the last few decades. Years ago, when the boarding house was built and the plantation house they'd grown up in was falling to pieces, Stefan even moved all their things, insisting they hold onto whatever memories they can. Damon doesn't really see the point, he'd be happy to see it all burn. The only memories from that house he wants to hold onto are of Katherine and as soon as he rescues her from her prison under Fell's Church, those can burn too.

He gets up to pour himself another drink, wondering if he can make himself drunk enough to forget he's back in Mystic Falls of all places. As soon as he gets Katherine out, he is gone, for good. Maybe he really will burn everything to the ground when he goes; it would give Stefan something new to complain about for the next century or so. As he picks up the decanter, he realizes it's cracked up the side, in serious danger of leaking brandy all over the carpet. Sighing, Damon pours the remainder into his glass and goes into the kitchen, tossing the old one into the bin.

After hunting for some time, he finally finds a replacement on the bottom shelf of the cabinet in the dining room. He pulls it out, surprised at what he sees. It was one of his father's favourites, tall and elegant, depicting the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar. On one side the ships are engaged in battle, on the other, Admiral Nelson lays dying, surrounded by his crew. He stares at the etchings on the glass, shocked it has survived through so many generations of drunken Salvatores.

Damon sinks onto the floor, glancing out the window to the bustling twenty first century, but really, all he sees is a moment in 1862.

His father cradles the stopper of the decanter gingerly between his thumb and index finger, more gingerly than he's ever seen him cradle anything else.

"It is long past time you joined the Confederacy Damon," he urges angrily, putting the stopper back on the bottle. It is only seven, they haven't even had dinner yet, but he is already drunk.

Damon eyes remain fixed on the decanter, tracing the etching of the HMS Victory blowing a hole in the ship beside it. The war has already stretched on for two long years and he won't be surprised if it stretches on for two more. He has managed to avoid it so far, but only because if he goes to war there is no one to run the plantation for his drunken father? But as of late, his excuses wear thin; Stefan is fifteen now and proving perfectly capable of handling a barely functional plantation. Damon could state his ideological reasoning for not wanting to go, his belief that slavery is a dying practice and the South has no means to win. But that will win him no favours with his father, a close personal friend of Jefferson Davis.

"Surely you need me here Father." He tries to suggest gently. His father is having none of it, he slams his drink onto the liquor cart.

"I am tired of your excuses Damon. Tomorrow you are riding to Richmond and you are enlisting or you are no longer welcome in this house. Do I make myself clear?"

Damon takes a breath. If he could, he would leave this house right now and never return, never look back. But his brother, his same reason for putting off going to the war, is the same reason he can't bring himself to leave forever. What kind of brother would he be to abandon Stefan with a drunk father, a plantation that is barely making an income, and a whole slew of debts piling up?

Damon doesn't say anything. He father continues to rant loudly, downing his drink in the process.

"This is your mother's fault, she coddled you. I told her it would ruin you but she wouldn't hear any of it. Look at you now, a coward." He takes a step closer to his son, "I don't think I could be more ashamed of you. Dropping out of school before you even finished the first term, refusing to fight for the Cause, tell me, what kind of man couldn't even keep that simpering little Fell girl happy? Hmm?"

Damon gulps but he stands, facing his father with his shoulders back. "If being a man means that I have to be like you, then I'll gladly live up to being a coward. Because if you ask me, the type of man who drives his wife to the grave and then makes his sons and his slaves suffer for it is the real coward."

Giuseppe's jaw sets, his anger seething out slowly. He picks up the decanter again, the glass glinting in the candlelight, and calmly pours himself another drink. He downs it and walks towards his son slowly.

"Don't you _ever_ speak that way to me again," he threatens. He brings back his hand, still holding the glass, and before Damon can as much as duck, it has shattered against the side of his head. Damon blinks dazedly at the sudden pain of the glass cutting into his skin. He brings his hand to his head, his fingers come up crimson.

"I wish you were dead," his father spits.

Damon sinks onto the sofa, his legs unable to hold him anymore. He meets his father's angry eyes, dead on.

"I hope you get your wish," he deadpans, as if it is an oath.

His father gives him one last long look of disgust and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. As he falls onto his side, starting to lose consciousness, Damon stares the decanter, the glass flickering in the remaining candlelight. Admiral Nelson lies dying in the arms of his crew, having served his God and country. Damon wonders if he ever questioned the ideals of his England, ever thought about the futility of going to war to begin with.

The door opens with a creak, but Damon does not raise his head from where he has collapsed on the sofa.

"Damon!" His brother comes rushing to his side, yelling for one of the slaves to bring some towels and call for a doctor. He tries to move but Stefan shoves him back onto the couch. "Lie still," he orders. Damon peers at him through heavy lids as his brother cradles his head, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He wonders if Nelson ever had a brother.

Back in the dining room of the boarding house, Damon ceases his musing, turning the decanter over in his hands. He takes another look at Admiral Nelson, lets out a drunken laugh, and brings his arm back, throwing the decanter against the opposite wall. It shatters spectacularly, sending glass raining all over the room. Damon sits in the midst of the destruction and tilts his head back, relishing in it.


	3. Chapter 3: The Photograph

**The Photograph**

**Episode 2.10**

"Do either of you have anything that belonged to Katherine?" Bonnie asks. Stefan looks to Damon dubiously hoping he might save him the embarrassment and offer something up. But Damon isn't one for sentimentality, or sometimes he wonders, any mentality at all.

"I have an old photograph of hers," Stefan finally says after a long, awkward moment. "I'll go get it." He ducks his head, avoiding his brother's amused gaze as he leaves the room. In his bedroom, he finds the photograph is where he remembers leaving it, at the bottom of his desk drawer.

As he pulls it out, he remembers the wretched day he found it among Katherine's things.

He had just made his transition to vampirism, with the blood of his own father on his hands. After begging Damon to feed himself, they headed back to the plantation house they'd grown up in to quickly grab a few changes of clothes. He'd already binged on most of the household, the rest had run away, leaving his father in a pool of blood in the study. Damon had grimaced with distaste as he passed the corpse but said or did nothing.

It is funny, Stefan thinks, that it was he, rather than Damon, who killed their father. After all, it was no secret Stefan was the favoured son. He remembers treading down the hallway, the door to Katherine's room propped open invitingly. Damon had strolled right past it, but Stefan couldn't help but peer in, hoping by some miracle she would be sitting there at her dressing table. It was empty though. Exactly the way it was when they tore her away from him in nothing but her corset and petticoats. If she'd been a lady they would have covered her, made sure she was decent, warm. But because she was what she was, they dragged her away like an animal. He shivered with want for vengeance.

Standing in front of her dressing table he'd touched the many bottles and boxes, aching with grief. He wanted to take something with him, something to remember her, but there was so little time. They had to find somewhere less high profile to stay. Throwing open one of the drawers and rifling through it, he'd hoped for a locket, a miniature, something. And resting in the second drawer, almost as if she'd left it on purpose, sat that photograph of her looking coy and well coifed.

He picked up and pocked it, glad to have a piece of her near him. A few hours later when the compulsion finally wore off and he realized what a manipulative bitch she was, he contemplated burning it, tearing it up and never thinking of her again. But he couldn't do it then and he can't do it now because regardless of whether he loves her, hates or is completely indifferent to her, Katherine is a part of him.

So he's kept it buried away in his things, unable to part with it. It is a reminder, every time he looks at it, at what loving selfishly has cost him. He didn't just lose his home, his life, which hadn't been that great to begin with. But he lost his brother. He can't forgive himself for what he did in the name of one girl so he keeps it, a constant reminder of the damage love can inflict. Because love isn't always patient and kind, sometimes it does take offense and it is resentful.

Back downstairs, he hands the picture over to Bonnie reluctantly. "This belonged to Katherine. I found it with her things after I thought she was dead but...it was hers." He glances casually at Damon who grimaces slightly. Bonnie is kind enough not to say anything, she just takes the picture and places it in the bowl.

As he watches it burn, he thinks of Elena. He loves her so much, so wholly and completely, in all the ways he knows he should love. And Elena's love for him, it is so pure, so selfless. Despite what he is, what he has done, she trusts him completely. Her choices come straight from her heart, from her compassion.

But it is thanks to Katherine that he treads so carefully with her when it comes to respecting her choices. Damon thinks he is too soft, that he can't handle collateral damage that comes with keeping her alive. And maybe he's right. But Stefan can't bear the thought of this wonderful, precious thing he has with Elena, causing hate and destruction and despair. As the flames die down and the photograph turns into ash, he pledges to himself that he will never love Elena the way he loved Katherine. He will always love her unselfishly, putting her compassionate choices before all else, because if he doesn't, they may well repeat history all over again.


	4. Chapter 4: The Bracelet

**The Bracelet**

**October 1864**

Katherine can hear him before she has even reached the top of the stairs. He's pulling open drawers, riffling through her things. She treads softly into the room, coming up just behind him.

"Find anything interesting?" She whispers throatily into his ear. Damon drops the bottle of perfume he is holding but her quick reflexes catch it. She sets it back on the vanity, amused.

"Katherine I—" Damon steps away from her, blushing. After all, it is a transgression of the highest form to go through a lady's things. Katherine only smiles, stroking the lapel of his suit. For all of his politeness, his attempts to do the right things, there is a profound streak of darkness in this boy, shimmering just under the surface. She wants to draw that darkness out and watch it consume him like a flame.

He thrusts something into her hands. "I am sorry Katherine. Please forgive me."

Katherine closes her hands around the little bracelet he placed in her palm, _Katerina Petrova_ it reads in delicate script. She'd all but forgotten this bracelet, she'd buried it in the lining of her jewellery box long ago but it must have fallen out, right into Damon's curious hands. Katherine opens the drawer to the vanity and slides the bracelet into the darkness, wanting to forget. But still the memories rattle her.

_All at once she is sixteen again, a powerless girl standing on a back road. _

_"Peter, please," she'd begged, tears streaming down her face. _

_Peter had held the reins of his horse, "Katerina, you didn't think I would marry you, did you? My parents have much greater expectations of me than a mere peasant girl." _

_"But you told me you loved me," she pleaded. "You gave me that silver bracelet." _

_Peter only smirked at her, a glint of amusement in his eyes knowing he had brought such a bright, spirited girl to such pathetic levels. _

_Under his gaze, Katerina had straightened, ready to salvage whatever she could for the sake of her child. "I am carrying your child," she pleaded firmly. _

_Peter's dark eyes, those dark soulful eyes she'd loved so much had flashed at her with anger and loathing, finally revealing his true nature. "No you're not," he deadpanned. _

_ "I swear it is true. I've not been with anyone else. I've never been with anyone else. Only you Peter." She uttered softly. _

_"I don't know what you're talking about Katerina." He'd said dismissively, mounting his horse. "Find some other fool to play your bastard off on."_

_It was then that Katerina truly crumpled. She'd fallen to her knees on the ground, unable to breathe. If Peter would not marry her, there was no hope for her. Her parents would cast her out for sure, her friends would shun her. _

_He'd looked down from his horse, amused at the crumpled girl on the ground. "Keep the bracelet, you'll need the money." _

_And then he'd ridden off, leaving her on the road with only the echo of his horse's hoofbeats. _

Katherine shook her head, trying to shake the memory off.

"What is it you were looking for Damon?" She asks, keeping a simpering smile on her face.

"You have told me so little of your past, I wanted...I wanted to know more about you."

She smiles, her perfect manipulative smile. "My past doesn't matter, Damon. Sometimes I can scarcely remember it myself." She touches his cheek, amused at how his breaths become shallower, his heartbeats faster. "Soon it won't matter to you either." She is lying through her teeth but he will never know until it is too late to go back that vampirism is no escape. The things he hates about himself, the things that haunt him, those things will always remain. Even if she doesn't turn Stefan, which she fully intends to do, she knows he never will really escape from the pull of his brother. Nor should he. For Katherine cannot imagine a world where one Salvatore exists without the other. But she lets him keep his delusions because it keeps him docile and for now she needs him to be docile.

"That's your real name isn't it?" Damon asks, "Katerina Petrova?"

Katherine's breath catches at the ease her name rolls off his tongue.

She snaps to attention, "You will forget you ever found that bracelet and you will never call me that again." Katherine compels him. Damon nods once. "Now go away. I'm tired," she dismisses, waving a hand towards the door. Damon leaves the room without a word.

Katherine takes a deep breath and seats herself at the vanity. She doesn't like how much that rattled her. The compulsion is going to wear off when she turns Damon and that is liability, a loose end to her plan. She is going to have to rethink her original idea to simply run away with the Salvatores if she wants to survive.

She loves them, they intrigue her, they flatter her. There is something inherently different in the Salvatore boys, earnestness that other men just seem to lack. She doesn't want to leave them behind. But she will not let Katerina Petrova, that powerless girl she keeps locked up inside herself claw her way out. The girl who stood on a dusty road, alone and pregnant, as the man who promised to love her forever called her a whore and condemned her to an existence as a fallen woman is dead. Katherine Pierce does not let men rule her affections anymore, does not let them come between her and her survival. A semblance of an idea floats into her head. Eagerly, she pulls out a piece of paper and begins to pen a note to George Lockwood requesting an audience. She will do whatever it takes.


	5. Chapter 5: The Mood Ring

**The Mood Ring**

**Episode 1.8**

Lexi is stretched out on one of the beds in the guest room, sound asleep. Her hair is blonder now, gone are the hoop earrings and mini-skirt, but he knows she is still the same self righteous girl he left on the roof in New York City, a few decades couldn't possibly change that. He plops himself on the other side of the bed, unable to resist getting into her head a little. He concentrates for a minute and they're standing back on that rooftop in 1977, the city stretched out before them. Gently he slides a hand up her arm. Her eyes flicker with attraction—

_Snap _

He's thrown from her head with a resounding force. Lexi cracks her eyes open and rolls over.

"Boo," Damon smirks.

Lexi rolls her eyes, sitting up.

"Hello Lexi," he purrs. "What an _unexpected_ surprise." Lexi scowls at him, shifting uncomfortably for a second.

"Unexpected surprise?" She regains her cool. "I think the wrong brother went back to high school."

"How long are you here for?" Damon asks, trying to remain impassive. Lexi sticking around could put a serious kink in his plans to get Katherine out of the tomb. Not to mention he's not sure he can take the constant judging and self righteousness. Stefan on his own makes him want to stake himself.

"Just for Stefan's b-day." Lexi replies coolly.

Damon rolls over onto his side, propping himself on one elbow, "Ahh, you mean you didn't come all this way to see me?"

Lexi follows his suit, "That's it Damon. After a century I've realized, death means nothing without you. _Do me_." She whispers, bringing a finger to his chin. Damon bites back a laugh, been there, done that. Downstairs, he can hear Stefan stomping around the library and feels a sudden stab of guilt. He pushes it away, redoubling his efforts to screw with Lexi. Even with the absurd amount of noise Stefan's making, why must he slam his books around, he's sure Stefan can hear everything they're saying.

Damon rolls back onto his back, "Why are you so mean to me?" He goads.

Lexi keeps up her facade impeccably, but then again, she was an actress once. "Um, have you met you? You're not a nice person." Damon rolls his eyes at the understatement of the year.

"Because I'm a vampire," he points out the obvious.

"But you're only the bad parts."

Damon smirks, bringing his face close to hers. "Teach me to be good," he purrs suggestively. _That_ garners a reaction. Lexi is up and off the bed in seconds, her hands wrapped around his throat. He wants to laugh at the fact he's finally gotten to her but he's in too much pain to do much more than choke.

"I'm sorry," he rasps. Lexi doesn't even acknowledge it, and for that he can't blame her. He means it more than he wants to mean it though and that scares him. What is it about this girl?

"I'm older, and that means stronger. Don't ruin my time with Stefan. Cause I'll hurt you." Her eyes flash suggestively, "And you know I can do that."

Her hands linger on his throat for a second and he spots the mood ring on her index finger. For all her bravado, she hasn't forgotten 1977 either.

* * *

He's standing in an alley, the night is cloudy, the city glows that strange tawdry orange. The girl he is feeding on struggles against him, beating on his back. She is stronger than most but hardly a match for him. Damon pulls back a moment, grasping for her hands to pin them away from her. His hands scrape against the series of rings on her fingers. One of them, a deep purple one, catches his eye. He's seen girls all over the city sporting these things.

"What is this?" He compels her with mild curiosity.

"It's just a mood ring," she replies blankly. "It's supposed to change colour with your mood." As soon as she has answered his question she snaps out of her compulsion. "Please let me go," she pleads.

Damon toys idly with her hand, he has little interest in the passing, generally stupid fads of teenage girls but Lexi has been bitching all week about her lack of daylight ring. He gently slides the mood ring off the girl's finger and pockets it. It's only a trinket but despite her age, Lexi is fond of these kinds of things, perhaps if he gives it to her she'll shut up about Katherine and Stefan for ten whole minutes. Damon smooths a lock of auburn hair out of the girl's face, then lowers his head to her neck. She is dead in minutes.

It's nearly four in the morning when he returns to the bar. Lexi is perched on the edge of it, laughing at Will and slinging back a bottle of tequila.

"Hey man," Will calls from the back where he is sweeping up the rubble left from the night's revels. Damon gives him a curt nod and perches himself on the bar next to Lexi, motioning for her to pass him the tequila. She hands it over and he takes a long drink, relishing the burn in the back of his throat.

"Where have you been?" She asks.

"Avoiding your incessant nagging," Damon snaps, slinging back another sip. "Got you something." He digs into his pocket and flicks the ring to her. Lexi catches it, turning it over in her hands.

"You got me a present?" She utters in disbelief.

Damon shrugs. "It's not a daylight ring."

Will leans over snorting as he gets a look at what it is, "Those things are a dime a dozen. You can buy one for seventy cents."

"That's not important," Lexi says, sliding the ring onto her pinky finger. "What matters is that for thirty whole seconds you thought about someone other than yourself." She smiles widely, "Damon, you're making progress," she practically sings.

Damon grabs the bottle again and takes the biggest sip of tequila he can get.

_Fuck. _

Lexi is looking at him with big hopeful brown eyes, for a moment she reminds him of Stefan chasing after him as a little kid. He blinks once. What is he doing? She's been driving him up the wall for nearly three months, why is he still here? He should have driven her away weeks ago. He takes another swig, ignoring her while she chatters about progress and Katherine being a psychotic bitch and learning to live with bad decisions. Lexi is not one to give up easily. If he really wants to get her off his back, he is going to have to convince her he isn't worth redeeming.

Damon sets the bottle down decisively, contemplating some advice Sage once gave him. Anyone in love is automatically weak. Lexi might not be as vulnerable as most women, but with a little effort, she could be. He reaches for her hand, running a thumb along the pinky where the mood ring sits.

"Looks good on you." He murmurs. He can hear her heart skip a beat. It's a start.

* * *

Later that night at Mystic Grill, Damon bites back his frustration. The only thing that stands between him and Katherine is that damn crystal and Caroline stands in front of him, biting her lip and telling him she can't get Bonnie to give it to her.

"I need that crystal," he growls.

Caroline's face softens, she reaches for his hands, gently stroking them. "Why are you being like this? I'm so good to you and you know I'd do anything." Damon bows his head, a bit ashamed. Caroline is just a kid after all, barely seventeen. She shouldn't be involved in this.

Across the room, Lexi and Stefan are playing pool. His ears pick up Lexi laughing at some stupid comment of Stefan's. Damon's eyes flick back to Caroline's pretty face. She is so willing, she is trying so hard. "It's just some stupid necklace," Caroline continues.

He snaps.

It is all too much, the damn crystal standing between him and Katherine, Lexi's return after decades of avoiding each other, Elena Gilbert glaring at him with Katherine's eyes, calling him a psychopath. And Caroline, a seventeen year old girl he's turned into a sex toy slash blood bag that is caught in the middle of it all. He grabs her wrists, causing just enough pain to make her listen, but not enough to seriously hurt her.

"No. You are the only stupid thing here." He seethes. "And shallow. And useless." He turns on his heel, storming away with the scent of her tears burning his nose.

Outside, he takes a cleansing breath. He needs feed, to kill. He wants desperately to cast off this cloak of guilt that Lexi seems to have brought with her. His original plan to just find a human to turn, stake, and hand over to Sheriff Forbes melts away with one last, impulsive urge. He needs to get rid of Lexi.

When he finally plunges that stake into her heart, something he used to dream of, he convinces himself that he doesn't feel a thing.

"Why?" Lexi pleads. This surprises him; surely she would assume this is about hurting Stefan. Perhaps she thinks more of him than he thought she did.

Damon catches a glint of light hitting that stupid mood ring. "It's part of the plan," he whispers. He twists the stake, watching impassively as her shocked face greys and she collapses to the ground.

Elena Gilbert wants a psychopath? She's got one.


	6. Chapter 6: The String of Beads

**The String of Beads**

Set between Episodes 1.21 and 1.22

"Stefan? Have you seen my hair brush?" Stefan looks up from the book he's lounging on the bed with. Elena stands framed in doorway to the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out of the corner of her mouth in an adorable fashion. "I thought I left it in the bathroom but I can't find it," she explains, shifting her toothbrush so she can speak more clearly.

Stefan sets down his book and blurs towards her. "I'll see if I can find it." He murmurs into her ear, fingering the edge of the soft towel wound around her head in a turban. He doesn't understand quite how she manages that, it seems to defy the logics of physics. "Unless of course you want to skip that whole school thing today."

Elena elbows him lightly. "You are such a terrible influence."

While Elena finishes up in the bathroom, Stefan starts rooting through his shelves and drawers, trying to think of where she might have left her hairbrush. She has a tendency to set it down in random places and forget about it and his room is filled with nooks and crannies for things to hide in.

One of his drawers rattles strangely as Stefan yanks it open. Curious, he moves the papers aside to find several wooden beads have broken off their strings. Rooting around, he pulls up a handful, his eyes going reverent as he cradles them in his hand.

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted, however by Damon's low voice from downstairs. "If you're looking for Elena's hairbrush, it's sitting here in the den." There's a slight clink as he sets down his tumbler on the table.

"Really Damon?" Stefan groans, surprised his brother is even awake this early. "It's seven in the morning."

"Your girlfriend singing ABBA in the shower drives me to drink," Damon throws out flippantly.

Stefan lets out a snort of derision. "Everything drives you to drink." He lowers his voice so Elena can't hear him. "And stop listening to my girlfriend shower."

Damon sighs, and his brother can almost hear his eyes rolling. "I was asleep. She's the one who woke me up with her incessant screeching."

"Stefan?" Elena emerges from the bathroom. "Who are you talking to?"

Brushing off his irritation, Stefan drops the beads into an antique ashtray on his desk. "Damon says you left your hairbrush in the den."

He watches as realization dawns on her features. "Right. Well I'll just go grab it then." She gives him an encouraging smile and trots downstairs.

Stefan turns one of the beads over in his hand. It's a deep mahogany colour, worn smooth and soft from decades of running through rough, dark hands. He knows their every groove, the feeling of the symbols carved into them are as familiar as the lines on his own palm. They are a magic ancient and old as the seas, Hanna used to tell him.

He closes his eyes and he can see her, framed in the soft of the fire light, running those beads through her hands like water.

"You're an old soul, little Stefan," she'd say to him, cradling him against her in the rocking chair. Her voice was dark and throaty but it was musical to him, the voice of the only mother he ever knew. He has no memories of his real mother. Just scent of lavender mixed with vervain and a flash of a soft blue dress buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

But Hanna, Hanna, he remembers.

In his earliest memories he is sitting on the floor of the nursery, watching her run those beads absently through her hands as she told him stories of lands and kingdoms far away. She told him of her grandmother, how these beads were her touchstone, the only reminder of the place she was ripped away from as a young girl. A place of lush, rich jungle that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Stefan sat rapt in fascination as she spun tales of these faraway lands, but even at a young age, somehow he knew never to repeat them to his father.

Hanna remained his nursemaid long after most young boys ceased to need them anymore. While Father had hired tutors for both himself and Damon; he never bothered to replace Hanna with a proper governess. For this Stefan was glad as he adored Hanna. But one day, just after he turned ten, she simply vanished.

Instead of being woken by her gentle chiding, he found his brother standing over him, his blue eyes heavy. Damon seemed so old to him that day, so much older than seventeen.

"Hanna is gone, Stefan," Damon had answered his brother's confused expression. "I'm so sorry," he breathed with regret.

Stefan remembers how he'd scrambled into a sitting position. He was so sheltered then. Mystic Falls wasn't even a town yet, just an isolated series of plantations. His world was so small, filled with only a handful of people, he couldn't fathom how one of them could just be...gone.

"Where is she? Did she go on a trip?"

Damon shook his head, rummaging through his closet to find him a set of clothes. "She's not coming back Stefan."

"But why?" He'd choked out.

Damon shut the drawer, rather violently, and sunk onto the bed next to him, hesitating. It took him a moment to speak but when he did, his words were gentle, but also very careful. "Hanna had to leave. She's going to miss you very much but she had to go. She had to move on."

Stefan stared at his brother, tears welling in his eyes, trying to understand.

"Hey, don't cry Stef." Damon reached into his pocket and held something out to him. The long string of wooden bead, stark against his brother's callused palm. "She wanted you to have these. She said they'd bring you luck."

Stefan gingerly took the beads out his brothers hand, running them through his own the way Hanna had. His own movements were clumsy fumbles compared to hers, but it was a comfort to him all the same. Somehow, holding them he felt calmer.

"Who's going to take care of us now Damon?" He'd whispered.

Damon had given him one of those crooked smiles of his but somehow there was something in it that seemed a broken to him.

"We'll just have to look out for each other." Damon had looked out the window staring out into the fields and then back to his brother. "We're all we've got."

"I do _not_ sing like a dying cat!"

Stefan is snapped out of his reveries by the shriek of Elena's voice carrying from downstairs.

"How would you know, have you ever heard a cat die?" Damon baits her, his voice tingling with amusement. "Because I have and it sounds a lot like you singing Mama Mia." Stefan groans inwardly; his brother gets way too much satisfaction out of winding her up and Elena always gives it right back to him.

"I'm not going to take judgment from guy who is pounding scotch at eight in the morning," Elena huffs. Stefan hears something slam on the table, probably her hairbrush.

Damon makes a tsking sound. "Don't knock it till you try it. I'll have you know this scotch is older than both you _and_ your judgypants."

Stefan shakes his head and sets down the beads. As much as he would like spend some time thinking about what happened to Hanna, he needs to defuse this situation before it escalates and one of them starts breaking things.

* * *

Stefan goes through the motions of being a typical high school teenager in his usual mildly interested blur. He flirts with Elena and takes his chemistry test and listens to Caroline go on about how Brad Collins cheated on Jill Fell with her skanky cousin Lydia but his mind is somewhere else entirely, wondering.

He drops Elena off at home to spend the evening with her family and heads back to the boarding house alone. There's only one person still alive who might have answers and Stefan finds him in the den, a book open in his lap and a glass of his favourite amber liquid at his elbow.

"Have a nice day at school brother?" Damon remarks sarcastically, flipping a page without bothering to look up. Stefan slides his bag off his shoulder and seats himself in the armchair across from his brother.

"Damon, can I ask you something?"

Damon leans back, downing the rest of his bourbon. "Yes, you do have Cullen hair. And no, it's not working for you," he ribs.

Stefan sighs. If his brother were a human he would be seriously concerned about how much alcohol he's gone through since they found Katherine was not in the tomb. As it is, he's just glad he hasn't murdered everyone in a ten mile radius. "Can you be serious for one second?"

Damon purses his lips and gets up to make himself another drink. "You're just going to accuse me of killing someone, no need to get all serious about it." He clinks through the bottles for a second, making a decision. "By the way I haven't...lately." He adds, putting the stopper on the decanter.

"I want to know what happened to Hanna." Stefan states bluntly.

Damon raises his eyebrows. "Hanna?"

Stefan crosses his arms, he hates the deflection games. "I know you remember Hanna, Damon."

"Oh I remember Hanna alright. I'm just wondering why you're bringing it up now after a century and a half."

Stefan shrugs. "Today's the day I realized I'd never gotten a real answer from you."

Damon saunters over to the sofa and takes a seat. "When you turned ten, Dad finally realized you were too old to still have a nursemaid. He didn't want you to be all...coddled." Damon pauses for a moment. "And to be fair, you were kind of a pansy even then so..."

Stefan only raises his eyebrows, refusing to engage with the bait.

"...he started talking about selling her."

Stefan leans forward onto his elbows, his brow furrowed. "Did he?"

Damon shakes his head. "I couldn't let that happen to her."

"What did you do?"

"I don't suppose you remember my friend Jeb? From my brief foray into boarding school?"

Stefan nods. "Vaguely. I definitely remember the blow out when you got kicked out. You've really never met a rule you didn't want to break, have you?"

Damon smirks with amusement. "Anyways, Jeb agreed to help me. He came down to visit from Philadelphia with some falsified papers and we smuggled Hanna back with him. Dad was in Richmond and it took him two weeks to notice she was gone. I told him she died while he was away, the rest of the staff sure as hell didn't contradict it and that was...that."

"You freed her?" Stefan utters in disbelief. It has been so long since he has thought of his brother doing something unselfish, something good. "She made it there okay?"

"She died in her bed in Philadelphia in 1890." Damon swirls his glass absently.

Stefan takes a rattled breath. "Damon...I know I don't say this often, but thank you."

Damon scowls. "Didn't do it for you," he replies curtly.

"Well I appreciate it all the same." Stefan stands, picking up his bag to go upstairs. "You know Damon..." he adds, turning around to face his brother again as he reaches the door.

"For the love of God, Stef," Damon spits. "Don't start with me on the 'you can be better if you just try hard and believe in yourself' front. Leave the unicorns and rainbows to Elena."

Stefan gives his brother a nod of acknowledgement. "Fine. Good night, Damon."

Upstairs, he sets his bag down and pulls out his journal, eager to work through all of his thoughts.

_'Today I reminded of something.' _He writes._ 'I was reminded of the man my brother once was. The man who refused to go back and fight for the Confederacy. The man who sacrificed his own comfort to save someone in a dire situation. I know I said there was no good left in him but somehow, today made me believe it's still in there. I know we can never be the same people we were in 1864 but...I'm glad to have my brother all the same. _


End file.
